


A Voice From Home

by ellerkay



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4663719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellerkay/pseuds/ellerkay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By coincidence, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce meets Ethan Rayne in a bar in L.A.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Voice From Home

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place earlyish in season 2 of “Angel” and could probably slide into the cracks of canon. Some implied past Ethan/Giles and one-sided Ethan/Wesley.

“Pint of beer, please.”  
  
Wesley was halfway through his first drink when he heard the voice, which cut cleanly through the noise of the bar. Not because it was particularly loud, or even familiar – but, it was English. After a couple of years in America, Wesley’s ear had become finely attuned to the sound of a fellow countryman. As always, he felt a little surge of homesickness.  
  
The owner of the voice was thin and dark-haired. His skin was pale, as if he hadn’t seen the sun in some time (perhaps he was newly arrived from the U.K.) and his face had a slightly haggard look to it, not helped by the fact that it had probably been at least a day since he’d shaved. His clothing was rumpled, too, and not necessarily at its cleanest; Wesley wondered if he was, in fact, fresh off a plane.  
  
“This isn’t a pint,” the man said, when he was given his drink, but without any real challenge in his tone. He gave the bartender some bills.  
  
The man was several seats down from him, but there was no one in between them, so Wesley only had to raise his voice a little to address him.  
  
“Ridiculous how small they are, isn’t it?” he said. The man looked at him warily.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Wesley said. “It’s just that it’s nice to hear a voice from home.” He rose and walked nearer, extending his hand. “I’m Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.”  
  
Wesley thought he saw a flash of something in the man’s face, but it was gone in an instant and he shook Wesley’s hand. “I suppose it is,” he said. “Even a posh accent like yours.” Wesley smiled. “I’m Ethan Rayne.”  
  
“It’s good to meet you,” Wesley said. “Do you mind if I sit here?” He indicated the seat next to Ethan’s.  
  
Ethan glanced over his shoulder, peering around the bar. “I’ll do you one better,” he said. “Let’s get a table in back, and we can talk about the homeland.”  
  
***  
  
“You’re not related to Roger Wyndam-Pryce, are you?” Ethan asked, after they were settled. Wesley stared at him.  
  
“You know my father?”  
  
“By reputation. Your father, eh? From what I’ve heard about him, you have my sympathies.”  
  
“How do you know who he is?”  
  
Ethan took a sip of his beer. “We have a…friend…in common.” Wesley wondered what the emphasis on “friend” signified. Lover?  
  
“Whom?”  
  
“Rupert Giles.”  
  
Wesley set his glass down with a thud. “You know Rupert?”  
  
“Oh, yeah. We go way back.” Ethan raised an eyebrow. “ _You_ know Rupert?”  
  
“We…worked together.”  
  
“Ah.” Ethan smiled sardonically. “I suppose that would make you a Watcher, then?”  
  
Wesley smiled back, pleased to have found a drinking companion who was not only British, but evidently knew about the secret world that made up most of his life. “Former, luckily.”  
  
“You quit?”  
  
“They sacked me. I was devastated at the time, but in retrospect, it was perhaps the best thing that ever happened to me.”  
  
“Well.” Ethan regarded him for a long moment, stroking his glass with his fingertips. Wesley had the uncomfortable feeling of a mouse being examined by a cat. He was probably reading too much into it. “How lucky for you, then.”  
  
***  
  
“So, what brings you to Los Angeles?” Wesley asked, after a couple of rounds and several amusing anecdotes about a younger, apparently much more relaxed Rupert Giles.  
  
Ethan set down his drink and looked intently at Wesley. “Can I trust you, mate?”  
  
“Of course,” Wesley said.  
  
“I’m on the run.”  
  
Wesley frowned. “From whom?”  
  
“I was imprisoned, by a wing of the American military – how embarrassing is that?” Wesley’s eyes widened. “It’s a group that knows about vampires, demons – and sorcerers.” He gestured towards himself. “They didn’t put much stock in magic before I came along, but I’m afraid they know a lot more now.” He grimaced. “There’s only so long one can hold out under torture.”  
  
“My god,” Wesley said. “How did you escape?”  
  
“I managed to hold a few things back. Just enough to get me out. But if they catch me again, they’ll be smarter. If I go back in, I don’t think I’ll ever come out again.”  
  
“Don’t worry about that,” Wesley said firmly. “I can help you. I belong to a team, headed by Angel, the vampire with a soul. We provide assistance for people like you.”  
  
Something had flickered in Ethan’s eyes at the mention of Angel’s name. “I’ve heard of Angel,” he said. “Didn’t he used to go by Angelus?”  
  
“Yes, but I can assure you, he’s reformed now.”  
  
“Can you ever really trust a vampire, though?”  
  
“You can trust this one,” Wesley assured him.  
  
“I’ll take your word for it,” Ethan replied, and kicked back a shot.  
  
***  
  
After four or five rounds, Wesley was feeling pleasantly drunk and altogether pleased with himself. He’d found them a new case; someone who obviously needed their help. And if Ethan was indeed a sorcerer, perhaps he could help them, in return, somewhere down the line.  
  
“So, you knew Rupert,” Ethan said musingly.  
  
“Yes,” Wesley replied, raising his glass for a drink.  
  
“Did he shag you?”  
  
Wesley inhaled a large mouthful of beer and began coughing reflexively. A few people looked over; Ethan pounded his back, laughing.  
  
“That’s either an emphatic ‘yes’ or a definite ‘no,’” he said. “Buggered if I know which.”  
  
“It’s a no,” Wesley said, when he could breathe normally again. He wiped his beer-soaked face with a napkin and dabbed at his shirt, avoiding Ethan’s eyes.  
  
“That was stupid of him,” Ethan said lazily, looking him slowly up and down. Wesley covered his consternation by sucking down the end of his drink.  
  
“When I knew Rupert, I was a sniveling coward,” he said finally. “I don’t think I was his type.”  
  
“Well, I’ve always been a sniveling coward,” Ethan replied. “That never used to stop him.”  
  
Wesley rose abruptly to his feet. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m just going to pop off to the loo and try to get some of the beer out of my shirt.”  
  
He hurried off to the bathroom. After relieving himself, he felt a little better, and the whole situation suddenly struck him as being very, very funny. He giggled a little as he pulled out his phone.  
  
Wesley thought he’d broken himself of the bad habit Cordelia called “drunk dialing” after she’d yelled at him one morning to never call her after drinking again, unless someone was dying (and then, only if she liked the dying person in question). She’d been yelling through his hangover – he’d called the night before to share the good news that he’d won five games of darts in a row, despite being mightily pissed – and it had been painful enough that he never wanted to repeat the experience. He’d thought a Pavlovian response mechanism had been set into place, but here he was, finding Rupert Giles in his contact list.  
  
“Rupert!” he said brightly and, he realized, too loudly, when Giles picked up. He tried to tone his voice down. “It’s Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.”  
  
“What’s happened? What’s wrong?” Giles asked.  
  
“Oh, nothing. I have a funny story for you.”  
  
There was a brief silence. “Wesley, are you drunk?”  
  
“No! Well, yes. That’s not the story.”  
  
“I’m going to hang up now.”  
  
“No, wait – I met an old friend of yours,” Wesley said desperately.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Ethan. Ethan Rayne.”  
  
This silence was very long, and, Wesley began to feel, rather ominous. “Rupert? Did I lose you?”  
  
“Are you with him right now?” Giles asked, sounding very serious indeed.  
  
“No, I’m in the loo. I ran into him at a pub.”  
  
“Listen to me closely, Wesley. Ethan Rayne is a sociopath. He worships chaos, and he has no regard for human life.” Wesley’s stomach dropped, and he put a hand on the wall to steady himself. “What does he want from you?”  
  
“I – I don’t know,” Wesley stammered. “He didn’t know who I was – oh, but he’s in trouble. He’s running from some government organization that had him captive.”  
  
“The Initiative. They’re not exactly moral themselves, but capturing Ethan Rayne is one of the few things they did right. Now, Ethan is a powerful sorcerer, but he knows mostly arcane, esoteric magic, spells that take a great deal of preparation – not much good in a fight. And he’ll fold at the threat of physical violence. Don’t let him know you know what he is. Get him somewhere you can contain him. I’ll be in Los Angeles by morning.”  
  
 _That never used to stop him._ “I don’t understand. He said you used to be – ” Wesley cut himself off just in time.  
  
“Used to be what?”  
  
“Friends,” Wesley finished, lamely.  
  
“We were. We’re not anymore,” Giles said tersely. “I’m getting in the car. Oh, one more thing. Under _no circumstances_ eat or drink anything he’s been alone with. Trust me on this one.” He hung up.  
  
Wesley closed his phone and stared at himself in the mirror, feeling like a fool. Two hours he’d been drinking and talking with this man, and he hadn’t suspected a thing. The worst he’d thought was that Ethan might be a bit sleazy.  
  
Someone came into the bathroom, and Wesley slipped out.  
  
Back at the table, Ethan was waiting. He was sipping a fresh beer, and there was a full one in front of Wesley’s seat, as well.  
  
“This round’s on me, mate,” he said, smiling. There was something odd, almost hopeful, in his eyes.  
  
Wesley forced himself to smile back, trying to keep control of his face.  
  
“Do you know,” he said, “I’ve had about enough. I think it’s about time I called it a night.”  
  
Ethan rose to his feet, looking disappointed (but he, too, was trying to control his expression). “Your generation is so soft,” he said jokingly. “Can’t hold your liquor.” Someone bumped into him and he stumbled, catching himself on Wesley’s arm and taking his time straightening up again.  
  
“I expect this is goodbye, then?” Ethan said, when he was upright again.  
  
“Of course not,” Wesley replied coolly. “I said Angel and our team would help you. I can give you my card, or – do you need somewhere to stay for the night?”  
  
Ethan’s eyes brightened. “I could use one,” he said, sighing as though it was hard to admit, but his tone was eager. “If you could spare a couch, or – ”  
  
“Of course,” Wesley said. “I live nearby. Let’s go.”  
  
They threaded their way through the crowd, out of the bar and onto the street, shockingly quiet after the loud bar. Ethan launched into another story about Giles, but Wesley listened with only half his attention, doing his best to laugh in the right places. Evidently, Ethan was drunk enough not to notice his odd behavior. Wesley was feeling considerably more sober, himself.  
  
They were a block from Wesley’s flat when a Jeep screeched up next to them, and four men in camouflage jumped out and surrounded them. Wesley found himself pinned facefirst against a wall.  
  
“No, no!” he heard Ethan cry. Wesley didn’t fight as the man holding him spun him around.  
  
“Who are you? How do you know this man?” the masked commando shouted.  
  
“My name is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” Wesley said. “I don’t know what all this is about, but I only met him ten minutes ago, in a bar. He was very drunk, and I offered to make sure he got home safely.” He looked over the commando’s shoulder. Two other soldiers were holding Ethan’s arms, and none too gently, from the way he was wincing. Wesley looked straight into Ethan’s eyes. “I don’t even know his name.”  
  
The commando looked at him searchingly for a moment, then, apparently satisfied he was telling the truth, he released him.  
  
“This man is a terrorist, who recently escaped from a government facility,” he said. “He’s very dangerous. We’d kept his escape a secret, to avoid a panic. Can we trust you to keep a lid on what you’ve seen tonight?”  
  
“I hardly see why I’d feel the need to tell anyone, now that he’s been recaptured,” Wesley said smoothly. The commando nodded, apparently satisfied, and nodded at the two men holding Ethan, who began dragging him off.  
  
“No!” Ethan cried, desperately. “Wesley, mate, help me! Do it for England!”  
  
Wesley watched impassively as the soldiers loaded Ethan into the Jeep and then drove quickly away. Determinedly, he ignored the shadow of doubt in his mind. Should he have…? But if Ethan was what Giles said he was –   
  
Resolutely, Wesley turned, pulling out his cell phone again and punching a few buttons. “Rupert? Yes, it’s me again. You can turn around; everything’s taken care of. The Initiative recaptured him when we were en route back to my flat…Yes, I deemed it prudent not to interfere. Thank you for your help. Oh, and Rupert, one other thing…” Wesley smiled, just drunk and adrenaline-high enough to say it this time. “I can’t _believe_ you used to shag that man.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m pretty sure that for Ethan, “torture” could mean anything from the rack to the comfy chair.


End file.
